“Same time—half-past eight?”
“That’s right—eight-thirty.”
“Anything in particular call your attention to her?”
“Well, I should think she’d have called anyone’s attention to her,” said Joe Turner gently. “Even all wrapped up like that, she was prettier than anything I ever saw in my whole life.” And he added, more gently still: “About twenty times prettier.”
The prosecutor stood silent for a moment, letting the hushed voice evoke once more that radiant image, lace-scarfed, silver-slippered, slipping off into the shadows. “That will be all,” he said. “Cross-examine.”
“No questions.” Even Lambert’s voice boomed less roundly.
“Next witness—Sergeant Johnson.”
“Sergeant Hendrick Johnson!”
Obedient to Ben Potts’s lyric summons, a young gentleman who looked like a Norse god inappropriately clothed in gray whipcord and a Sam Browne belt strode promptly down the aisle and into the witness box.
“Sergeant Johnson, what was your occupation on the nineteenth of June, 1926?”